Search This Blog

Sunday, 1 December 2019

The Votary – Part 2

The story by Laurence Piper concludes — from Janus 88.
THE STORY SO FAR: Through his daughter, April, Harry has met and fallen in love with 19-year-old Linda, an extremely attractive blonde university student who has chosen him to be her mentor. In the course of their growing friendship Linda has come to know the moors and hills which lie on the outskirts of town. More especially, she has become aware of a small cave in the hillside with a table-shaped rock in its entrance which arouse what seem to be dormant memories in the girl. To Harry’s bafflement she asks him to take her there on a wet, cold and windy day so that she can be a ‘sacrifice’ to the ancient spirits of the moors. The day he decides on is Sunday…
Saturday is an even more awful day than Friday. In fact, as I gaze glumly out of the window at the heavy October skies and the almost impenetrable rain, listening to the moaning wind that strips the last clinging leaves of the year from the trees, I am denied the comfort of foresight, which would have told me that Sunday is going to make Saturday look like a pleasant summer day.
I work away busily, making good progress, when Linda comes in with some coffee. She stands beside me, left arm about my shoulder, nuzzling my hair as she looks into the screen at what I am doing. Automatically my arm goes about her waist, my hand cupping a vibrant, denim-clad buttock.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Okay,’ I say, and she leans into me, her breast pressing my cheek. In reflex action I squeeze her bottom and she flinches slightly.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Still sore?’
‘A bit.’ She giggles, her arm tightening a little about my neck, and she prints another kiss on the top of my head.
‘It’s my crew-ell lover!’ she moans in that soft, theatrical way she affects. ‘He beats me, you know! Shall I show you the marks?’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I tell her hastily, for if I am not careful I can see myself being drawn into one of her impromptu diversions. Not that I would not enjoy it, but I really do have to finish this piece of work, and time presses. I look up into her eyes, blue as the sky, deep as the sea, and at her face, half smiling, half sensual, framed in golden curls that reflect even the dull light of this dismal day.
‘Perhaps if I had a word with him?’
She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth turning down, mock despairing. ‘Wouldn’t do any good. He’s a mean, vicious, brutal beast…!’
With every epithet she kisses me gently. Her lips are soft and yielding, and I am suddenly shot through with an incredible, confident happiness. ‘I daresay he’s not all bad,’ I protest, half-heartedly. ‘After all, he probably loved his mother.’
‘Not he!’ Mock fierce. ‘He hasn’t got a decent bone in his body. You should see what he has planned for me tomorrow!’
The spell is broken. I am dragged reluctantly back to reality. ‘Speaking of tomorrow,’ I say, ‘have you seen the weather lately?’
‘Yes!’ We both look out of the window, but there is a difference in the way we view the day. My glance is glum. Linda’s, on the other hand, twinkles with pleasure and anticipation.
‘Isn’t it brill? There’ll be nobody about if it’s like this. O’ny us…’
Herein lies the difference. We are both looking at the same awful day, but where I view it with concern, fearful of the damage to her health that several hours exposure, naked, to the elemental moors can do, Linda sees it only in terms of it furthering her plans. To her, there is no need to worry about consequences. It is an article of faith that, if she submits herself willingly to the ‘sacrifice’, then the spirits of the moors will protect her.
For, to Linda, it is a sacrifice. In her recognition of the place, there had also been a remembrance of a whole historical and ethical philosophy, one which she feels somehow obliged to honour, an impulse which I know all the arguing in the world will not alter one jot. Yet still I feel I must try.
‘Look,’ I venture hopefully. ‘The part at the cave… yes, all right. But surely there is no need for all the rest of it?’
That old, familiar look comes over her face. Linda is extremely compliant when once she has accepted one’s authority. On the things she believes in, or determinedly desires, however, she tolerates no let or compromise. I sigh, anticipating her words before she speaks them.
‘I’ve explained it all before,’ she says with that dangerous edge of patience in her tone. ‘All the rest of it, as you call it, is only the build-up. But it is important. If we neglect that then we might just as well forget the whole thing!’
There are times when it is wise to bite one’s tongue. This is one of them. Linda’s way is the way They did it. Or so she believes — ‘They’ being those ancient inhabitants of the moors whose shaman she claims I was in some previous incarnation.
Apparently they (we?) worshipped the guardian spirits of the moors, who ruled benevolently if absent-mindedly over all life. However, these deities tended to be so engrossed in their own affairs that they were largely unconscious of the concerns of their charges. To focus their attention on purely human concerns, therefore, it was thought necessary by the inhabitants to engage the spirits’ interest by means of sacrifice.
Not of life, however, for the tribe was small, and anyway lacked the proper bloodthirsty attitude, which may explain their later disappearance from the pages of history. Instead, four times a year, the women of the tribe made a sacrifice of pain by offering their bare bottoms to the shaman’s switch.
This ceremony, at which the choicest of the tribes maidenfolk took at least a dozen swingeing strokes across their unprotected buttocks while lying naked on the altarstone at the entrance to the hillside cave, worked well for a time. Then, it seems, there was a run of poor hunting, of stillbirths and of defeats at the hands of tribal enemies. Obviously, it was believed, the sacrifice had become unacceptable.
Fortunately, in every community there is at least one member who claims to have the ear of the gods, and this tribe was no less lucky than others in that respect. I have yet to work out whether this prehistoric visionary was the one Linda thinks of as me, but whoever it was came up with the formula that the sacrifice was simply not sufficiently prolonged and severe for the spirits to get their fill, and that if the sacrificial maidens were to walk in procession for several miles, undergoing short spankings and whippings at regular intervals, their gradually mounting distress would serve to focus the spirits’ attention so that the culminating ceremony at the cave would impress upon their minds the needs of the tribe as a whole.
Whether or not this embellishment found favour with the sacrificees Linda cannot say. Personally, I doubt it, for they would have endured a prolonged and testing ordeal by the time they were helped down from the sacrificial stone after their whipping. Yet, according to Linda, there was never any shortage of young females to volunteer for the ordeal: it was a great honour to be selected, and she who was chosen was esteemed for the rest of her life in proportion to the number of her submissions to the divine appetite.
Later, of course, it was found necessary to have the women process back to the starting point, undergoing yet more chastisements as they went. The slow build-up of sensation in the punished maidens, the intensity of religious fervour, and the equally slow return to normal were intended, of course, to fix the event, and the people, in the guardian spirits’ somewhat fugitive thought processes.
These are the ‘memories’ that flooded Linda’s mind when first she saw the site, and with every subsequent visit her consciousness of these bygone events became more detailed. These things happened; and if she says it was so, it is because she truly, genuinely believes…
The trouble, from Linda’s point of view, is that after thousands of years the spirits are famished, for their minds have not been nourished by sensation since the last member of the tribe was slain by invaders. Now they have sensed a potential feast, and have clamoured silently in her thoughts for the pain-food that alone adds flavour to their existences.
I shrug, sipping coffee while Linda drapes herself around me, half tempting, half teasing. Finding me proof against her wiles, however, she changes her tack.
‘Can I have some money, please?’
‘I suppose so. What do you want it for?’
‘The switch, of course; you said I could buy it today.’
Actually, I haven’t, as I remember it. But then, I have not actually refused, which to Linda is as good as agreement. I sigh pointedly.
‘I’ll get my wallet. How much do you want?’ A moment later I groan as she names the sum. ‘How much?’ She strokes my hair soothingly.
‘It’s very cheap really, considering the quality. And we’ll get years of wear out of it.’
As I have remarked, Sunday is a truly dreadful day, and as I look out on to the wind-lashed, rain-beaten garden alarm courses through me again. Not so Linda, who has been up and bustling about from an unaccustomedly early hour, gathering things together, changing her mind, and then returning to her original ideas so often that it takes all the patience I can muster not to snap at her.
For herself, little preparation is needed, but for me there is a small backpack to be filled with Thermos flasks of coffee and soup, and a couple of large fleecy towels. When her back is turned I surreptitiously add one of her tracksuits and a set of rainwear. I am unsure of Linda’s ability to endure all she thinks she can, so I keep finding reasons to delay, thus shortening the already brief winter day.
Linda is fretting impatiently again. April, for whom dawn breaks precisely at 10am on weekends, pauses on her way from the kitchen, cup in one hand, a slice of toast in the other.
‘I think you are both out of your minds,’ she says, but there is no real condemnation in her voice. Linda grins at her conspiratorially.
‘Why don’t you come with us?’
April looks out of the window and shudders. ‘Some other time, perhaps…’
By 10.30 I have run out of reasons for delay. Linda sits beside me in the car, face glowing, staring out at the storm with an air almost of ownership. Occasionally she turns to look at the back seat where a basket of food and a pile of towels lie. I watched her stowing them carefully, tenderly, with none more reverently handled than the brand-new ladies’ riding whip with its tabbed end and its menacing, flexible braided length.
Before we head for the lonely moors, however, petrol must be bought. I tell Linda to work the pump and pay the cashier. She does so with alacrity and an engrossed air, dressed in stout walking boots, thick woollen socks and a full-length sheepskin coat. As she swaggers off to the till no one would know that under the heavy coat she is completely naked.
On a Sunday morning in such weather, traffic is light in town, but still enough to demand close attention in the heavy rain. I start to feel warm from the air pumped out by the car heater. Beside me, Linda sits in Position, quivering with anticipation, watching the road ahead wide-eyed.
The moors begin on the town outskirts but it is several miles before we will arrive at the point where the gentle undulations begin to gather into the softly rounded mounds that announce the hills among which our penitential procession must be paced. However, Linda has been calling the tune in this business too often for my taste. It is time she were brought back to heel. I wait until we are well down a secondary road before I stop the car. At this unexpected halt, Linda’s discipline almost breaks down as she half-turns her head to look enquiringly at me.
‘Out!’ I demand. When she is standing in the open under the full force of the weather, as apprehensive now as she is excited, I order her crisply to take off her coat and toss it in the back of the car.
She casts a wild eye along the exposed road, but there is nothing in sight. Nor, if she were cool enough to think about it, is there likely to be in weather like this. Discipline holds. With reluctant fingers she takes off the coat.
Driven by the chill wind, the rain is like needles as Linda stands, naked and gasping, under its assault. I savour her nudity while she shivers and cringes. In the gloomy light her skin goose-fleshes instantly, wet and glistening, while I subject her to a slow, cool survey from the shelter of the warm, dry car.
‘Stand up straight!’
With an effort she obeys, and the gleeful rain explores every nook and cranny of her shivering body. She braces herself bravely. This is the reality of her imagining; yet in her eye is a look, as her body adjusts to conditions, that suggests she does not find it wholly unbearable.
I keep her, arrow-straight, hands on head, for more than a minute before setting her to vigorous exercise: running on the spot, jumping up and down with feet together, feet astride, arms waving, breasts bobbing enticingly in rhythm, until she is thoroughly warmed. Then she sits beside me, naked, in Position, face glowing with something more than the exercises as I drive deeper into the moors.
The place we are making for lies where the hills fold softly into a small valley, and an old stone bridge, protected by slightly newer galvanised pipe railings, crosses a stream that, gorged with rainwater, tumbles and surges to the distant river. Few go there even in the best of weather; today it will be about as populated as the dark side of the moon. Beside me Linda sits, shivering slightly, eyes shining, lips parted, nipples perking. From time to time I take my left hand from the wheel and run it deliberately, arrogantly, over her breasts, belly and groin. As she has been taught, Linda shows no reaction, but her arousal is easily discovered.
She waits at the bridge, rigidly at attention, while I park the car and walk back to her, the springy riding whip with its supple leather length vibrating responsively in my grip. Even in my warm clothes the cold is penetrating.
Our ultimate destination is roughly three miles away, at least an hour’s brisk march over the rough moorland and drenched hills. Difficult enough, at the best of times, for tourists to reach. Today we shall be assured of solitude.
Before we start, however, the spirits must have their first sip of sensation. The procedure is exact, laid down by Linda herself, and there can be no deviation from its stringent demands. I look at her as she stands stock-still, her naked body whipped by the suddenly increasing rain, the wind marbling her flesh and the golden hair flattened about her streaming skull. Only her eyes, blue and intense, have life. They follow my every move with an absorbed attention — or, rather, the movements of the crop, for as I gesture to the railings with it she obeys instantly, climbing up to brace her feet on the bottom strut.
As she makes to fold herself over the top, her belly flinches from the icy wetness of the metal piping. Her hesitation is only momentary, for in another instant she is bent, compliant and vulnerable, over the rail.
Her bottom is like marble, stone-cold, blotched and goose-fleshed with the chill. The full soft cheeks hardly stir as I measure the crop against their span; but as the first whistling stroke bites into her backside her buttocks seem to fold in upon themselves, to clench and surge inward as she soaks the pain into the core of her being. The air is so heavy with damp, and the wind so wild, that her shriek of pain dies to nothingness within yards. I strike again.
Apart from the wail, which must have pleased the spirits of the moors, Linda has more control of herself this time. It is much more agonising, on chilled nates, than are her normal canings; yet, controlling with a soft reflective sigh her body’s urge to jump away from the bite of the crop, Linda urges her hips back into the proper penitential pose, even as the second stripe glows brightly across her haunches.
I pause as long as I dare in this cold to admire the shifting, pouting buttocks working before me. I feel the urge to strike again, but two strokes have been decreed, and with two I must be content. At my command, Linda clambers stiffly down from across the railing, shivering vibrantly. The rain streams down her body, her tears mingling with it. She braces her back, throwing her head up to look at the weeping skies while her hands flutter consolingly around her throbbing hinder parts.
Altogether she is a sorry sight, her body washed by rain and prickled with cold, in a violent yet somehow erotic agitation as she shudders, her face showing ecstasy through the trepidation.
‘Are you sure…’ I start to ask, ever considerate of her well-being; but check myself in time, stifling the words into a grunt, the mood undisturbed.
Time to move on. We advance along the muddy track, Linda walking before me at a slow, processional pace, the riding switch held up before her eyes. Faintly, over the sound of the wind, comes an irregular tuneless humming as she sings what sounds like a primitive chant. Her back is straight, her eye firm and inward-looking, her measured step as precise as a guardsman’s at the slow march. Her whole body is blotched with cold but she seems not to notice, and hardly shrinks now from the icy rain. As I follow her I am fascinated as much by her remote acceptance as by the deeply-cleft, ripely rounded cheeks which jiggle and wobble to her steady movements, each one creasing and uncreasing with a rhythmic elasticity that brings her bare-skinned buttocks to life as an independent being.
I had worried about Linda’s ability to stand up to her self-appointed penance; but as I watch those strong, bare legs flexing under the sweet stir of the rounded buttocks, I feel happier. Her pace is regular, if slow, and the shapely calves emerging from the stout boots and socks tense and flex healthily, sexily, hardly scratched as yet by the gorse which overgrows the edges of the path. Her body is whitely dim, almost ghostlike in the near-twilight of that awful day as she moves steadily onward, a dozen yards ahead.
For a moment I spare a glance at our surroundings, or what I am able to see of them. To our right spread the barren wastes of the moors: monotonous plains enlivened now and then by a stunted, half-hearted tree. To our left rise the purple-black slopes of the hills whose sides we are beginning to ascend. These, too, in the foreshortening light, are deserted and grim, the gorse and dead heather weighed down by their burden of damp. I shudder, and bring my attention back to the erotically quivering figure marching ahead of me.
There is a conveniently shaped rock about half a mile along the track. Reaching it, Linda halts, waiting impassively as I seat myself upon it, preparatory to taking her over my lap. As her stomach encounters the cold wet plastic of my rainwear she flinches. I take no notice, thrusting her firmly across my knees.
Only the twin stripes made by the crop have colour in that brave bottom, whose chilled cheeks vibrate gently with cold. As I rest my hand on her bottom, preparing to spank it, I marvel at the cold radiating from the pert mounds, making the flesh lifeless and heavy in contrast to the eager perkiness of their normal appearance. At any other time I would have felt sympathy. Now, however, a strange sensation is stealing over me. I am beginning to accept, as does Linda, the validity of what we are about; and without scruple I deliver the allotted six smacks, stingingly, to those jouncing chilled globes.
Each hefty slap is greeted with a shrill cry; not at all the way in which Linda usually takes her spankings. Normally she savours them quietly, with an occasional sigh or indrawn hiss, gathering within herself the swelling sting. Today, though, her cries must ascend in the sodden air, filling the valley and hillsides with her plaint so that the guardian spirits can feast on her suffering!
The spanking over, I urge her to her feet and we resume our stately progress. Even as I watch, the cold bleaches the bright scarlet from Linda’s buttocks, and when we breast the hill and emerge into unsheltered slopes the wind and rain break down upon us in manic delight.
Here, approximately one mile from the start a boulder is set in the side of the path at just the right height for my nude blonde neophyte to lie over so that the riding crop may whistle two more strips of flame into those acquiescent buttocks. It is strange, I suddenly note, how regularly spaced these rocks and boulders are. No one, seeing them individually, would guess the purpose for which they were originally placed. And a mild astonishment seizes me, for it seems I am now accepting Linda’s story, and starting to see with her eyes as well.
Cold and damp make the taking of these strokes almost unendurable, and it is with a certain remote pity that I watch the slender, goose-bumped form shriek its anguish to the flooding skies, squirming over the boulder and stamping booted feet into the muddy earth, while the twin marks of my efforts bloom into throbbing life…
And so we advance, with numbing ponderousness, along the path appointed for all those prehistoric feminine hindquarters. At the clearly appropriate places we stop so that Linda can go across my knee or bend over a mossy rock to have her bottom spanked or whipped for the delectation of deities in whose existence I am beginning to have some faith, whose voices I now seem to hear screaming their approval on the wind which almost blows us back in our tracks.
The light closes in even more. We are alone, lost in these elemental environs a million miles from brightness and warmth, from the cosy TVs and the cheerful pubs of the town. Yet not alone, somehow…
The rain is almost solid, deluging down with enough force to cause me to spare a random kind thought for the slim, naked girl who strides so proudly before me, the twin segments of her cold-blanched bottom already rosily patterned by numerous whips and spanks, juddering enticingly, a lure to all my senses as I follow.
As we approach the sacrificial site the weather seems to gather fury. The wind actually increases in force and the temperature plummets until, with the cave in view, we find ourselves in the midst of a hailstorm. In this change, however, I seem to sense something more than nature randomly at work: surely there is, out there and all around us, a supernatural awareness fully absorbing us both and influencing with its extraordinary yet so familiar power every aspect of this time-beyond-time that encloses us.
Even I, dressed as I am, am stung almost beyond enduring by the savagery of the deluge; while Linda halts abruptly, seeming to huddle whimpering within herself as the hailstones pelt her body, leaving minute red blotches on flesh already bruised by stumbles against stones, scratched by gorse and muddied from the miry tramp. I hesitate, trying to measure in my mind the distance to the cave, now all but invisible through the murk and rain. But as I stare a strange indifference grips me, and I watch dispassionately as Linda struggles to force herself upright against the icy projectiles that bite so fiercely into the softnesses of her tummy and breasts.
At last we gain the cave, and in so doing my gratitude is all for myself. For Linda, as she stumbles blindly against the granite of the boulder, I have no pity to spare. As she touches the rock the hailstorm abruptly dies, leaving only the wind’s relentless howl. We are half-sheltered by the cave, however, and the respite from the onslaught is wonderful, so that for the first time in many minutes I have concern enough to include Linda. She has collapsed against the flat-topped altarstone and sunk down to sit on the gritty floor. I feel I must help her, even if it be against whatever rules there are to this age-old ceremony.
I force the brandy flask between her teeth and she sips gratefully. Life flickers back into her eyes as I remove a Thermos of hot soup from my pack and hand her a cup, which she empties in a single draught. The effect is miraculous, for she seems to gather strength immediately, standing up and looking about the cave, seemingly unaware of the vibrant shivering that shakes her naked form. For the first time since we started she looks directly at me.
‘If you are.’
She nods, her attention magnetically drawn to the sacrificial table. The wind whoops and swirls about us as eagerly as ever; though its force actually seems to be lessening. Linda walks to the front of the cave, her back to the stone bench over which she shortly must suffer her major votive offering to the gods of the moors. She stares out at what she can see of the countryside, standing palpitant, nudely erect, feet planted firmly apart, arms raised above her head and holding the riding crop in both hands. She turns, repeating the gesture to each side, as if, on some distant hillside, superhuman eyes are watching. She stands so for some little while, the muscles playing strongly along her back and haunches, while her face is questioning, listening, straining for some voice that I shall never hear.
All at once it seems she has been answered, for Linda turns to face the altar, lowering her arms and holding the crop out toward its surface while she paces the circuit of the granite block.
Only then does she turn in my direction, sinking to her knees, legs apart, arms braced out towards me, proffering the crop, head almost touching the ground. I take the crop with a gravity which seems enforced upon me, as Linda prepares to scramble on to the sacrificial slab.
Then I see that her buttocks are covered with the fine, gritty soil of the cave floor. Together we try to brush the dirt off those marvellous cheeks, but it is clinging stuff. In the end, we get most of it off, and I am satisfied that there is no danger of the pliant leather-bound shaft driving grit into the flesh. Linda climbs on to the table of sacrifice, arranging herself face down on its chill, damp surface, fingers gripping the corners of one end, toes scrabbling at the others, so that her body is spread and the target of her bare backside, already emblazoned with six burning streaks, broadened to receive the fiery salute of the crop.
I stand looking upon those quivering posteriors, and at the whole offering of her, feeling my body throb with expectation, from my knees to my chin. Not yet, however, may I begin, for Linda commences a long wordless chant, lifting her head and gazing out of the cave as if in trance. Her eyes are remote, and her thoughts, such as they are, thousands of years away.
Sensing there is no place for me here in this moment of intense supplication I step outside, walking a few paces down the hillside, restraining my excited impatience. Linda will accept the crop when she feels the time is ripe, and not one moment sooner. In the meantime, trying to relax in that vortex of feeling, I study the weather. As I thought, the wind is dying, and though the clouds lower, further rain is plainly not imminent. Turning, I look back towards the cave and the stone table at its mouth to discover a searingly erotic view of Linda, nude and prostrate, spread-eagled over the granite slab. In view of the place, and the conditions, I had not expected to find the sight in the least arousing, and contemplate briefly this revelation of myself.
Her chant has ceased. As I step back up to the prehistoric altarstone Linda’s body cringes involuntarily, and I see with surprise that she is dreading the next few minutes. The discovery is somehow endearing, and I touch her wet, clinging hair reassuringly. But her face is averted, her eyes fixed on the cave wall.
As I raise the switch I notice that the wind has died completely away. And then all the hills seem to be straining to hear…
Her hips slam into the surface of the stone as her body strives to jump away from the crop’s fierce stroke: a momentary weakness, for even as the stripe flowers full across the clenching cheeks, her bottom urges itself back into a properly receptive pose.
Linda shrieks resoundingly, her cries echoing, ringing and amplified, from the rocky walls to broadcast over the listening hills as her hips twist to throw off the shock and another stripe leaps whitely over those feather-soft cheeks.
Something, I know not what, makes me pause to look over my shoulder. Nothing is there, of course, yet it seems as if the whole outside is crowding in upon the cave with greedy attention.
The place seems alive, aroused, as Linda’s hips twist and buck agonisedly on the altar of pain. Or does her body in fact recoil with the energised grace of undulating waves, the spontaneous and characteristic ripple of the particular primal creature she has now become? Is it with heroic determination or with zestful desire for life that her pretty buttocks lift to me once more, despite the soft continuous sobbing that comes from her throat and the frantic stare in those sweet blue eyes which peep anxiously back at me, the tears coursing unchecked on to the already wet surface of the granite slab? I half smile to myself for I know that look, just as I know these urgent bottom-cheeks which flinch spasmodically at the tap of the crop: twice, three times, exquisitely precise. They are not so desperate as all that, these quivering naked buttocks that challenge my crop with such fragile resolve. They have taken much more than this in our ordinary sessions.
Hard and swift, I bring the crop thrumming down into the meatiest curve of Linda’s bare bottom, just at that point where experience has taught me it is most sensitive.
There is the oddest sensation, as of invisible presences crowding at my shoulder as I smile grimly into Linda’s liquid eyes and run my hand, soothingly, salaciously, over her tensile mounds.
Thhwwuuppp! Thhwwuuppp! Thhwwuuppp! Thhwwuuppp!
Her shrieks, under the flurry of strokes, ululate about the cave and tremor outwards on the still, heavy, almost panting air. Her white body flops about on the slab like a newly-landed fish and her buttocks open and close in a frenetic effort to contain the torment.
‘Only three more to go, Linda,’ I say quietly, breaking the mandatory silence; and at my words she shakes her head, angrily, as if to restrain me from further speech. I tap the crop gently over her flinching backside, and she moans despairingly, yet her haunches hold themselves complacently still to the whip’s caress. At the corners of the altar her knuckles show white as she grips fiercely at the rock, and her toes dig desperately into the altar top, seeking purchase. When I measure the crop yet again across the trim span of her naked arse she whimpers fearfully.
I bring the crop swishing down into that beloved, meaty bottom a tenth, eleventh, and twelfth time, so that when Linda has received the decreed dozen she is quite hoarse and her bottom is a dancing, shrinking parchment upon which a maniac draughtsman has ruled all the lines that will fit.
At last it is done. At last my darling can wriggle urgently from the altar, can cling to me, crying bitterly; plastering herself against me, as I think, for consolation.
Not so; for in a moment, still racked with sobs, she is pulling at my zips, tearing at my buttons, dragging me down on to the cave floor and wrapping herself frantically about me; and in my turn I respond with urgency. There is still, it seems, one more sacrifice to make…
As we make our way back down the rock-strewn slopes the wind picks up again and the rain begins to fall softly upon us. Gone is the former wildness, and although I know it is only imagination there seems to be a brooding satisfaction, a knowing joy, in the hillsides about us. Even the temperature seems to have risen by several degrees Overcome by a sense of wonder and accomplishment for which I cannot account, I follow yet again the rolling hips and striped buttocks that progress slowly, and with a painful stiffness, before me as we retrace the processional path. Those eighteen stripes look angry, and Linda’s bottom throbs raw; so that, my frenzy past, I must force myself to administer the remaining three hand spankings and the triple dose of two with the crop that remain to be inflicted. Also, now that the day is nearly past, there is a sorrow in my heart and a numbing sense of impending loss weighs upon my spirit.
At last the final thwacking switch-stroke whistles down across those overcrowded hindquarters, and Linda can climb painfully down from the pipe railing. The wind is still, now; the rain has ceased. As I gather her frail, shuddering body into me and kiss that dear, damp face and those chill lips, the feeling overwhelms me that I am kissing her farewell.
Yet somehow I know that, even if she were to leave me now, a something, untellable but palpable, has come into being in both of us; and I sense that, even were we now to part, I would survive: that the deadness of the past lay in that past, and that I can now only look to the future with hope and expectation.
I ease more brandy down her throat, and pour a fresh cup of soup. Linda stands, sipping, looking absently out over the country while I rub her briskly down with fleecy towels that still hold some of the heat from the hot-water bottles I had wrapped them in. Under my feverish massage her colour restores and her tender flesh quivers. When she is dry I urge her into the sheepskin coat. She co-operates absently, still gazing over my shoulder much as one sees small children stand as their mothers dress them. But soon I am buttoning her into warmth and helping her into the passenger-seat.
We drive home through the gathering dusk, which yet shows promise of lighter weather. Beside me, Linda reclines luxuriously, the back of her seat lowered halfway. Her face is abstracted and dreamy, and there is a half-smile upon her lips. To me, who expects the worst, the silence is ominous and it comes as a relief when, a mile or so down the road, she stirs, looks about her, winces and lifts her rump carefully from the seat.
‘How do you feel?’ I say, glad of an excuse to break the silence. Linda smiles ruefully.
‘All itchy and tingly, as if I’d been sitting in a patch of stinging nettles.’ She lays her hand upon mine as it grips the steering wheel. ‘A very nice patch of nettles, of course,’ she adds grinning again and shifting carefully in her seat. She looks at the sky.
‘It’s clearing up.’
‘That means They are pleased.’ She shifts again in her seat. ‘So They should be. My poor bottom…’
‘I’ll put some cream on it for you when we get home,’ I say, striving to sound cheerful. Linda shakes her head.
‘No! It must last as long as possible, although I hope the marks are cleared up by the end of the week. I know you like my bum unmarked when you get to work on it.’
‘You mean…’ I stare joyfully. ‘There is going to be another weekend?’
‘Of course!’ She looks at me in surprise which quickly becomes concern. ‘Why, darling, whatever did you think…?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I say gratefully, for my heart is welling with happiness. ‘I suppose I thought that after you got me to fulfil your, er, wishes, then there would be no more need of me in your life. Something like that.’
With a completely natural, unforced gesture she lifts my hand from the wheel to her lips. ‘Silly! As if I could do without you, be complete without you! We go together, you and I. And besides, we please Them.’
‘Ah!’ I say, grinning happily, idiotically. ‘Them!’
‘They need us, you know. Someone has to feed Them. Why not us? And talking of that, it’ll be Christmas in a couple of months. We should do it again, sometime between Christmas and New Year. They want it, and the weather will be right, and you’ll have the time to spare from your work.’
‘They’ve told you all this, have they?’ My tone is ironic, but I surprise myself by finding that I believe completely.
‘Not so much told,’ she says seriously. ‘I just know it, that’s all.’
‘All right, then. Fair enough.’
Linda lifts my hand to her lips again. Then, leaning well back, she unbuttons her coat and, still holding my hand, moves it down the front of her gorgeous body, caressing so softly.
‘We shall be together as long as we keep Them well disposed towards us,’ she declares confidently. I look at her and laugh.
‘I was just thinking,’ I say, and laugh again. ‘I’m going to have a hell of a job making that trip when I’m ninety.’
My hand is suddenly pressed to a secret warmth, and her fingers grip mine urgently.
‘We could always get you a wheelchair…’


  1. Bob here.
    A nice concluding chapter to a rather "left field" sort of tale.
    Kind of half spanking yarn;half "hammer horror" movie.I kept half imagining Christopher Lee as the hero of the story as I read it.
    Ha ha! I prefer the more traditional
    scenes and tropes of spanking fiction but this was still very entertaining.

  2. I too prefer more traditional spanking scenarios such as schools and religious establishments.

  3. Bob here.
    I quite agree,Anonymous.schools,reformatories,
    convents and domestic scenarios are probably the favourites for the vast majority of us who peruse this superb
    blog.There might be one or two folks that might consider the above old fashioned and dated but I hope (in fact,I feel pretty sure)that I am not alone in thinking that such scenes set in period times can be very powerful and stimulating.I love period stuff: Victorian,30's,40's, 50's, etc.
    Modern stuff too,of course.
    Do you enjoy period material too,Anonymous,or are you more into present day stuff ?

    1. I really prefer more traditional settings, periods and implements for spanking stories. Hairbrushes and paddles don't really work for me. Canes, slippers and belts do, and hand, of course. If you are on Twitter, you can look at my recent tweets on this subject by clicking on this link, or by copying and pasting into the address bar on your browser: